She makes babies clothes for the sleeping children. Started with her own, but just kept going… That’s why she walks the fence line. Knuckle bones pressed white against paper skin. Twisting wool loose. Gathering the lost.
all smiles and glitter staring back at you
in that echoing space
No one explained that best before was subjective at best. Instead they suggested that you were lucky to find a man willing to settle for spoiled produce so close to the sell by date. Did it occur to you the rot might be them?
I’m still getting used to this lion in my mouth. But sometimes the notion of seen and not heard still aches in my chest, despite the waterfall of words I seem to spout whenever my lips part. When you’re trying to stay silent, some times it helps if you cover up the abscene with something meaningless and hollow, like empty poetry. Laughter is also good. If you can laugh about it, it can’t of been so bad. But time can chip away at you if you let it. Too much silence can eat the soul of you completely. Not matter how small the seed. If we just don’t mention it, ignore it and carry on, then it’s not that big of a deal so why make a fuss. Women always make a fuss. At night I feel silly, walking with my car keys turned to the sharp edge of a key-chain, cold and hard against my palm Alone is when I think about the school corridor, his face …
I’ve kept all the pieces of you that I could find. Stored them safely, wrapped away in a box somewhere hidden and warm, until I can remember how the puzzle goes and slot you back into yourself, a little more fragile perhaps but whole again.
I found the pip between my teeth an hour after the bitter bite of garden currents had faded from my tongue. In the middle of a meeting, too close between collegues to spit or pick the pith from my mouth. Instead I chased it from cheek to cheek along the ring of my lower lip to the hollow beside my molars. The presenter lost his place, tapped again at his laptop, muttered a word , asked someone to call IT. I swallowed by accident. Choked, drew a worried glance, waved it away with a glass of water. Outside the cleaner checked bins, roll of bags at her hip, quick, quiet between the desks, she whisked any evidence away. The Summer heat has been making it difficult to sit down and write. Nowhere feels comfortable and I’m constantly shifting position to try and ease that sticky, gross feeling that comes with trying to do anything at all during hot, summer days. I’d really love to hear people’s thoughts on this …
The ripples are gone when I look, searching the water for a slip of silver twisting back on itself leaping skyward in panic or ecstasy perhaps. I think about you and I, or at least the phantom of us that clings to my lungs on slow days, crawls onto my shoulders to press my face down, down, down, down where I deserve to be when my own body twisted back on itself, my mouth searching for a way to swallow the words I’d spoken, to return them to the saftey of unspoken rather than the spotlight of my glowing red cheeks as I fumbled to dress myself in what I thought was maturity. I can feel nails along my spine, when I think of how much I wanted to be loved.
If you run your hands along my sides you can feel the ridges beneath my skin, the raised lines of glass, an old pharmacy trick, so those who could not read their words wouldn’t pick up the poison by accident. When you have peeled my clothes away, they will still be there. The final line of defence when all the labels have been cast off and you could be forgiven to think I was medicine instead of arsenic wrapped in curves.
Sleep drunk you curl into me, mutter half a sentence, and slip away again. These mornings, where the sun sneaks in past the darkness of the blinds to trip across the covers in soft waterfalls of light I latch my legs into yours, find a rib to cling to, tuck my head into the hollow beneath chest and chin and let myself breath slowly. unworried by the tussle of hair, rumple of sheets, tangle of chores waiting downstairs, I lie here with you. Daily Prompt: Messy
Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul Lana Del Rey – Young And Beautiful This Is Not Weakness I take pride in my independence. The way I make decisions for myself, choosing how many rungs to climb, which skill to equip my mind with, which challenges to tackle next. That is why when I stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain outside our window in the early hours before dawn breaks I have to remind myself that this isn’t weakness. I dare not tell people how you stand guard against the blue days. How you can peel the lead from my bones, soothe the hurricanes in my head, and find me among the shadows without a torch. These days, it is not right to need someone but some days I can’t do anything but need you. I have to remind myself that this is not weakness, this is partnership, and love doesn’t make me any less. I am allowed to cling to you when the …